


What I Wish

by hardboiledbaby



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kid's thoughts on amnesty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Set after _The Day the Amnesty Came Through_. My thanks to Quoshara, ever steadfast and true beta. Any remaining errors are mine.

I guess you could say it was all my fault. Couldn't rightly deny it if you did.

I showed Heyes the handbill, asked him what it meant. Put the fool idea into his head, even though I didn't mean to. Sometimes I wish that I hadn't, that I'd thrown the damned thing away, but that's water done and gone under the bridge.

"Provisional amnesty," Lom said. "Stay out of trouble for 12 months," he said.

Twelve months. That was almost seven years ago. That's a lot of water, long gone. Four governors gone. Five, if you count the temporary one that was in there, somewhere. And now we're on number six.

Lom swears that Thomas Moonlight is _the_ one: a fellow Kansan, an officer and a gentleman. If we keep our noses clean, _this_ governor will keep his word and follow through on the offer of real amnesty.

Of course, that's what he said about Baxter, and Warren, and the rest of 'em.

I'm thinking there's a pattern here.

See, to me, amnesty's not much more than a hope of a promise of a maybe. A maybe given in secret by a man who ain't even in a position to make good on it anymore, and no guarantees that anyone else ever will. A fine idea, I grant you, but there are a lot of fine ideas out there that can't stand tall and look you in the eye in the pure light of day. I reckon this is one of them.

You might think Heyes, mistrustful-minded as he is 'bout most things, would see it that way too—but if you did, you'd be dead wrong. Even after all this time, as far as he's concerned, we're _this_ close to being free and clear of the bounty on our heads, to having the slate wiped clean and our shameful past put behind us for good.

Lord, I wish that were so. I surely do.

I want that for him, above all things. To never have to juggle dynamite or nitro to bust a safe. To never have to face down drunken angry gamblers who can't stand losing fair and square. Good as he is with those things—hell, Heyes is the best—there are lots of other things he's good at. Things that won't blow up on him or shoot at him.

Shit, he could've been almost anything he wanted, whatever he set his mind to. If it hadn't been for the War, and what happened to our families... well, there's no use crying over spilt milk, that's for sure. Still and all, he would've made a fine lawyer, or professor, or some such. Even a banker—and wouldn't _that_ have been a hoot? And maybe, he just might yet. It could happen, if he got amnesty.

But me? I know who I am and what I am—Kid Curry, outlaw and gunman. Even if it should ever happen that I'm no longer an outlaw, it won't change the fact that I'm a gunman. Always will be. It ain't something you can wash out, take off, or walk away from. Even if it should happen that I never touch another gun in my life, it won't change what I am in the eyes of them that look at me. It won't change what I am in the eyes I see in the mirror.

There'll be the folks who'll be a-feared of the killer living in their midst. Yeah, I've killed men. Not when we were robbing trains and such, but to defend myself or someone else. Not half as many as some seem to think, neither. Then again, I guess the whys and wherefores don't really matter. Even one's too many, and that's a fact.

Then there'll be those who'll see me, not as a threat, but as a challenge. The fastest draw in the territory—it ain't a reputation I'm particularly proud of, nowadays, but it's one that many a gunslinger wants for himself. Even without a price on my head, the bragging rights alone for gunning down Kid Curry would be worth it to them.

Young guns will show up and call me out, demand their right to prove to God and the world that they're faster and better than me. One day, one of 'em will be. There's not a damn thing I can do to stop that day from coming to pass.

Funny thing, smart as Heyes is, he don't seem to get it. He thinks the amnesty will be some kinda magic trick that takes away all our problems. That it'll give us a chance at a "happily ever after."

Sure. A snowball's chance in Hell.

Or maybe he does get it. Maybe he knows that ol' snowball's melting away, but he keeps trying anyway, to protect me.

I suppose that sounds a mite backwards to some, Heyes protecting me instead of the other way round. Makes me no never mind. Sure, I look out for him, keep unscrupulous varmints from cheating him or yellow-bellied lowlifes from bushwhacking him. It's the one thing I'm good at, and I'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe. But he does the same. He has, ever since our time at the Boys' Home at Valparaiso.

Looking back, I must've been an awful burden on him. He was no more than a boy himself, but he didn't let on that he was scared or hurtin'. For all that he was a gangly, skinny whelp, it seemed to me like he was big enough and tough enough to handle anything. He wasn't, not really, but he tried, he put himself between me and everything bad in our world, and paid the price for doing it. He'd been the protector then, and I truly don't know what would've happened to me if he hadn't been there. I could never repay him for what he did. What he still does.

What he's still doing.

Still putting himself between me and the world: the reality of a life of hard scrabbling with nothing to show for it, a life lived forever on the run, or cut short by a senseless bullet. A future without hope.

Oh, he'll never admit it. Probably call you plumb crazy, but that's what he's doing, just the same.

It's his way, to think he can fend off the plain and ugly truth with pretty words. Maybe that's why he uses so many of 'em. I confess, it sure is nice, sometimes. 'Specially when it's only the two of us, riding to nowhere in particular. He builds his pretty castles in the clouds, makes 'em seem so real, I can almost reach out and touch the golden future he paints for us.

Almost.

I haven't the heart to tell him what I really think. I've brought it up a time or two, but when I see how pleased he gets, how happy the thought alone makes him... I swallow my doubts, and let him talk. Good Lord, if talkin' could make it so, then we'd have no problem. Trouble is, life don't work that way.

He must know how I feel, though; he's got to. Heyes knows me better'n anyone. He simply won't accept it. He calls _me_ stubborn, but he sure got his own share of mule in him and then some. He's bound and determined to prove me wrong, or die trying.

Yeah. He will, at that.

I reckon that means I gotta prove him right.

I guess the long and short of it is, I'll do whatever I can to earn us that amnesty. Jump through the Governor's hoops, dance to his tune, if that's what it takes. As long as we've still got that snowball's chance, I'll keep working for it. A fool's errand, maybe, but that ain't the point anymore—if it ever was. Whatever it takes to keep that hope alive in him, the dream shining bright, I owe him that. In the end, that's all I can wish for.


End file.
